Clive Cussler - 2004 - Black Wind Page 3

  "Sound intensity three, off our bow. May be a destroyer," the operator reported, correctly identifying the churning sound of the tin can's twin propellers.

  As if on cue, the gray ship materialized out of the fog a half mile away, the apparition of a steel wraith charging across the moor. White foam burst off the bow in angry torrents while wisps of dark smoke billowed from the funnel. The lean ship drove straight at the sub, an attacking lancer not to be denied.

  In an instant, the I-403's deck gun boomed as the submarine's experienced gun crew attempted to halt the oncoming dervish. The slim, head-on profile of the destroyer made for a difficult target, however, and the shell passed harmlessly to one side. Hurriedly, the gun crew took aim and fired again.

  Once identifying the ship as a destroyer, Ogawa recognized the futility of a surface duel with a superior vessel and immediately ordered a crash dive. The mission would have to be sacrificed for the safety of the ship and crew, he reasoned, if it wasn't already too late.

  As the dive alarm sounded, the gun crew fired off a last desperate shot before scrambling belowdecks to safety. The gunner's accuracy was nearly dead-on, but he overcompensated the approaching speed of the destroyer. The shell splashed into the water fifty feet directly ahead of the American ship's bow, blasting a spray of water onto its deck but causing no damage.

  The two forward batteries of the Theodore Knight ax last came to life, lobbing five-inch shells in succession toward the Japanese sub. The inexperienced and adrenaline-fortified gun crew fired high, however, placing the destroyer's shells harmlessly beyond the now-accelerating submarine.

  On the exterior bridge of the I-403, Ogawa hesitated momentarily before dropping down the hatch, taking a final glance at his approaching stalker. Movement caught his eye on the forward deck, where he was surprised to see a crewman striding toward one of the

  airplanes. It was a pilot, ignoring the dive command and climbing into his plane. In the spirit of the kamikaze, the pilot could not bear the thought of losing his aircraft and was willing to die with it instead. Ogawa cursed his foolish bravery, then ducked down into the bridge below.

  The ballast tanks were opened and a rush of seawater began flooding in to weigh the submarine down. The huge hull of the I-403 was a liability in this situation, requiring a notoriously long time to submerge. As Ogawa waited for the sub to make its agonizingly slow descent, he played one more card.

  "Prepare to fire torpedoes!" he commanded.

  It was a gamble, but a calculated one at that. With the destroyer directly ahead, Ogawa could let go a shot in the face of the ship and make the hunter fall prey to the victim.

  "Tubes loaded," the torpedo officer reported.

  "Stand by tubes number one and number two," Ogawa ordered.

  The destroyer was barely two hundred yards away and still belching fire from its five-inch guns. Amazingly, the destroyer's guns continued to miss their mark. The point-blank target of the sub slowly began to diminish as the nose of the undersea craft dipped beneath the waves and a wash of seawater gradually flooded over the forward deck.

  "Fire one!" Ogawa shouted. Counting off three seconds silently, he paused, then ordered, "Fire two!"

  With a blast of compressed air, the two torpedoes burst out of the forward tubes on a deadly streak toward the advancing destroyer. Each packing an 890-pound lethal warhead, the twenty-three-foot-long, oxygen-powered torpedoes accelerated quickly, racing toward the Theodore Knight at better than 45 knots.

  An ensign standing on the bridge wing of the destroyer noticed a seam of white trails under the water's surface burrowing toward the ship.

  "Torpedoes off the port and starboard bow!" he shouted, though his body remained frozen in rapt fascination as he watched the speeding explosives approach.

  In an instant, the torpedoes were on them. But either by miscalculation, divine intervention, or just plain luck, the two deadly fish somehow missed their target. The immobile ensign watched in amazement as the two torpedoes skimmed past both sides of the destroyer's bow, then raced down the length of the ship no more than ten feet from either side of the hull before disappearing beyond the stern.

  "She's diving, sir," noted the destroyer's helmsman as he watched the waves slosh over the bow of the sub.

  "Steer for the conning tower," Baxter commanded. "Let's go right down her throat."

  Firing from the forward batteries had ceased, as the guns could no longer be trained on a target so low to the ship's bow. The bat de became a race, the destroyer boring in like a charging ram in an attempt to batter the I-403. But the submarine was gaining depth and, for a moment, appeared like it would successfully slip beneath the stalking ship. The Theodore Knight had crossed over the bowline of the sub, its keel missing the top deck of the descending sub by a matter of feet. But the destroyer drove forward, intent on crushing the submersing vessel.

  The aircraft were the first to feel the sharp wedge of the destroyer's prow. Partially submerged on the receding deck, the randomly aligned airplanes just caught the surging bow of the ship at mid height and were instantly dissected into large sections of mangled metal, fabric, and debris. The defiant pilot, who had climbed into the cockpit of the first airplane, received little time for impudence before realizing his wish to die with his plane in a crushing blow.

  The I-403 itself was now half submerged and had so far avoided damage from the assault. But the sub's conning tower was too great a protrusion and could not escape the charging wrath of the ship. With a crunching shear, the bow of the destroyer tore into the vessel's console, slicing through it like a scythe. Ogawa and his operations officers

  were killed instantly as the ship crushed into and through the control center of the sub. The entire structure was ripped away from the body of the submarine as the destroyer continued its onslaught, carving a mutilating gash along the rear spine of the I-403. Inside, the doomed crew heard the screeching grind of metal on metal before the torrents of seawater burst in and flooded the compartments. Death came quickly but painfully to the drowning men as the sub lurched, then dropped rapidly to the seafloor. A smattering of air bubbles and oil boiled to the surface to mark the gravesite, then all was silent.

  Aboard the Theodore Knight, the crew and officers cheered their destruction of the Japanese submarine as they watched the telltale slick of black oil and fuel pool on the surface like a death cloud above the sunken boat. How lucky they were to have found and destroyed an enemy vessel right on their own home shores, with not so much as a casualty on their own ship. Though the enemy had fought with valor, the victory had come easily. The crew would return to port as heroes, with a great tale to tell their grandchildren. What none of the men on the destroyer could have suspected or imagined, however, was the unspeakable horror that would have befallen their countrymen had the I-403 succeeded in its mission. Nor could they know that the horror still awaited, silently beckoning from the depths of the shattered wreckage.

  Mystery trawler and NUMA

  May 22, 2007 The Aleutian Islands, Alaska

  The winds swirled LIGHTLY about the faded yellow tin hut perched on a small bluff overlooking the sea. A few light snowflakes danced about the eaves of the structure before falling to the ground and melting amid the grass and tundra. Despite the nearby hum of a diesel generator, a wooly Siberian husky lay on a sun-exposed patch of loose gravel enjoying a deep sleep. A white-feathered arctic tern swooped by for a look, then stopped momentarily on the small building's roof. After curiously examining the odd assortment of antenna, beacons, and satellite dishes adorning the rooftop, the small bird seized a gust of wind and flew away in search of more edible offerings.

  The Coast Guard weather station on Yunaska Island was as tranquil as it was remote. Situated midway along the Aleutian chain of islands, Yunaska was one of dozens of volcanic uprisings that curved off the Alaskan mainland like an arched tentacle. Barely seventeen miles across, the island was distinguished by two dormant volcano

 
  p
eaks at either end, which were separated by rolling grass hills. Absent a single tree or high shrub, the green island rose like an emerald from the surrounding frigid ocean waters in the late spring.

  Lying central to the North Pacific currents, Yunaska was an ideal location for tracking sea and atmospheric conditions that would brew into full-fledged weather fronts as they moved eastward toward North America. In addition to collecting weather data, the Coast Guard station also served as a warning and rescue relay station for troubled fishermen working the surrounding marine-rich waters.

  The site could hardly be considered a paradise for the two men assigned to man the station. The nearest village was ninety miles away across open water, while their home base in Anchorage was more than a thousand miles distant. The isolated inhabitants were on their own for a three-week stint until the next pair of volunteers was airlifted in. Five months out of the year, brutal winter weather conditions forced closure of the station except for minimal remote operations. But from May to November, the two-man crew was on call around the clock.

  Despite the seclusion, meteorologist Ed Stimson and technician Mike Barnes considered it a plum assignment. Stimson enjoyed being in the field to practice his science while Barnes relished the time off he would accrue after working a station shift, which he would spend prospecting in the Alaskan backcountry.

  "I'm telling you, Ed, you're going to have to find a new partner after our next R&R. I found a fissure of quartz in the Chugach Mountains that would knock your socks off. I know there's got to be a thick, juicy gold vein lying right beneath it."

  "Sure, just like that strike you made wild claims about on the McKinley River," Stimson chided. Barnes had a naive sense of optimism that always amused the elder meteorologist.

  "Just wait till you see me driving around Anchorage in my new Hummer, then you'll believe," replied Barnes somewhat indignantly.

  "Fair enough," Stimson replied. "In the meantime, can you check

  the anemometer mounting? The wind readings have stopped recording again."

  "Just don't file a claim on my gold field while I'm up on the roof," Barnes grinned while pulling on a heavy coat.

  "Not to worry, my friend. Not to worry."

  Two miles to the east, Sarah Matson cursed leaving her gloves back in the tent. Although the temperature was almost fifty, an offshore breeze made it feel much cooler. Her hands were wet from crawling over some sea-washed boulders and the sensitivity was evaporating from her fingertips. Climbing across a gully, she tried to forget about her icy hands and concentrate on moving closer to her quarry. Stepping quietly along a boulder-strewn path, she eased herself slowly to a prime vantage point beside a shallow rock outcropping.

  Barely thirty feet away lay a noisy colony of Steller's sea lions basking at the water's edge. A dozen or so of the fat-whiskered mammals sat huddled together like tourists jammed on the beach at Rio while another four or five could be seen swimming in the surf. Two young males barked loudly back and forth at each other, vying for the attention of a nearby female, who showed not the slightest sign of interest in either mammal. Several pups slept blissfully oblivious to the rancor, cuddled up close to their mother's belly.

  Pulling a small notepad from her jacket pocket, Sarah began jotting down particulars about each animal, estimating their age, sex, and apparent health condition. As accurately as she could, she carefully observed each sea lion for signs of muscle spasms, eye or nasal secretions, or excessive sneezing. After nearly an hour of observation, she replaced the notepad in her pocket, hoping that she would later be able to read the scribbled handwriting created by her frozen fingers.

  Slowly retracing her steps, Sarah edged away from the colony and

  made her way back across the gully. She found that her original footsteps had left indentations in the short grass and she easily followed her imprints leading inland and over a gradual rise. The cool sea breeze felt refreshing to her lungs as she hiked while the sparse beauty of the island made her feel energized and full of life. Belying her slender frame and delicate features, the flaxen-haired woman of thirty actually relished working outdoors. Growing up in rural Wyoming, Sarah had spent all her summer days hiking and horseback riding in the Teton Mountains with a pair of rambunctious brothers. A love of outdoor wildlife led her to study veterinary medicine at neighboring Colorado State University. After a number of research positions on the East Coast, she followed a favorite professor to the federal Centers for Disease Control with the promise that she wouldn't be stuck in a lab every day. In the role of field epidemiologist for the CDC, she was able to combine her passion for wildlife and the outdoors by helping track the spread of communicable diseases among animals that posed a health threat to humans.

  Finding herself in the Aleutian Islands was just the sort of outdoor adventure she craved, although the reason behind it tugged at her animal-loving heart. A mysterious number of sea lion deaths had been reported along the western Alaska Peninsula, although no known environmental catastrophe or human-induced culprit was suspected. Sarah and two associates had been sent from Seattle to diagnose the extent of the die-off and determine its range of dispersement. Starting with the outward Aleutian island of Attu, the team had begun island-hopping eastward, searching for signs of the outbreak while working their way toward the Alaskan mainland. Every three days, a small seaplane would pick the team up, then ferry them to the next designated island with a fresh drop of supplies. The second day on Yu-naska had failed to reveal indications of the ailment in the local sea lion population, which added a small sense of relief to Sarah.

  Blessed with high cheekbones and soft hazel eyes, the pretty scientist quickly ambled the two miles back to camp, easily spotting the trio

  of bright red tents some distance away. A squat, bearded man wearing a flannel shirt and a worn Seattle Mariners baseball cap was rummaging through a large cooler when Sarah approached the campsite.

  "Sarah, there you are. Sandy and I were just making plans for lunch," Irv Fowler said with a smile. An easygoing man on the thin side of fifty, Fowler looked and acted like a man ten years his junior.

  A petite redheaded woman crawled out of one of the nearby tents clutching a pot and ladle. "Irv's always making plans for lunch," Sandy Johnson responded with a grin while rolling her eyes.

  "How did you two make out this morning?" Sarah inquired as she grabbed an empty campstool and sat down.

  "Sandy's got the stats. We checked a large colony of Steller's on the eastern beach and they all looked fat and healthy. I found one cadaver, but by all appearances the fellow looked like he expired from old age. I took a tissue sample for lab analysis just to be sure." While he spoke, Fowler pumped the primer on a propane gas camp stove, then lit the hissing gas escaping beneath the burner, the blue flame igniting with a poof.

  "That's consistent with what I observed as well. It appears that the affliction has not spread to the sea lions of charming Yunaska," Sarah replied, her eyes sweeping the green landscape around them.

  "We can check the colony on the west coast of the island this afternoon, since our pilot won't be back to pick us up until morning."

  "That will be a bit of a hike. But we can stop for a chat at the Coast Guard station, which I recall our pilot saying was manned this time of year."

  "In the meantime," Fowler announced, placing the large pot on the portable stove, "it's time for the specialty of the house."

  "Not that fire-belching-" Sandy tried to declare before being cut off.

  "Yes, indeed. Cajun chili du jour," Fowler grinned, while scraping the lumpy brown contents of a large tin can into the heated pot.

  "As they say in N'Awlins," Sarah said with a laugh, "Laisse^ k bon temps rouler."

  Ed Stimson peered intently at a weather radar monitor watching a slight buildup of white electronic clouds fuzz up the upper portion of the green screen. It was a moderate storm front, some two hundred miles to the southwest, that Stimson accurately predicted would douse their island with several
days of soggy weather. His concentration was interrupted by a rapping sound overhead. Barnes was still up on the tin roof fooling with the anemometer.

  Static-filled chatter suddenly blared through the hut from a radio set mounted on a corner wall. Nearby fishing boats, their captains yakking about the weather, constituted most of the garbled radio traffic received on the island. Stimson did his best to tune out the meaningless chatter and, at first, failed to detect the odd whooshing sound. It was a low resonance emanating from outside. Then the radio fell silent for a moment and he could clearly hear a rushing sound in the distance, something similar to a jet aircraft. For several long seconds, the odd noise continued, seeming to diminish slightly in intensity before ending altogether in a loud crack.

  Thinking it might be thunder, Stimson adjusted the scale view on his weather radar to a twenty-mile range. The monitor showed only a light scattering of clouds in the immediate vicinity, with nothing resembling thunderheads. Must be the Air Force up to some tricks, he figured, recalling the heavy air traffic in the Alaskan skies during the days of the Cold War.

  His thoughts were broken by a crying wail outside the door from the pet husky named Max.

  "What is it, Max?" Stimson called out while opening the door to the hut.

  The Siberian husky let out a death-shrieking howl as it turned, shaking, toward his master in the doorway. Stimson was shocked to see the dog's eyes glazed in a vacant stare while thick white foam oozed from

  his mouth. The dog stood teetering back and forth for a moment, then keeled over on its side, hitting the ground with a thud.

  "Jesus! Mike, get down here quick," Stimson yelled to his partner.

  Barnes was already climbing down the ladder from the roof but was having a hard time catching the rungs with his feet. Nearing the ground, he missed the last rung with his left foot altogether and lurched to the ground, staying semierect only by a hearty hand grasp on the ladder's rung.

  "Mike, the dog just ... are you okay?" Stimson asked, realizing something was not right. Running to his partner's side, he found Barnes in a state of labored breathing, and his eyes were nearly as glassy as Max's. Throwing his arm around the younger man's shoulder, Stimson half carried, half dragged Barnes into the shack and set him down in a chair.